When the Levee Breaks
by Gold-On-The-Ceiling-42
Summary: It's been two months since Stiles Winchester and his unlikely alliance defeated the Beast, and it looks like things in Beacon Hills are beginning to settle down. However, in Beacon Hills, it can't last. All it took was a missed call and an old friend showing up at his doorstep for the crazy in Stiles' life to finally reach a breaking point. The sequel to Never Trust A Fox.
1. What Is and What Should Never Be

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! So, let me start out by saying that this is a sequel, the fifth installment of my Stiles Winchester series. If the titles "Blood on my Name," "Poisoned Youth," "The Ultimate Battle of Wits," or "Never Trust A Fox" don't sound familiar, then this story will not make any sense. If those titles do sound familiar, then welcome to the fifth! So this is a sequel to Never Trust A Fox, and it takes place two months after season 5b of Teen Wolf, (spoilers, also this story is one month before when season 6 is set,) and season 10 of Supernatural (spoilers.) Now, if you haven't read the other stories, basically Stiles is a badass Winchester but had a falling out with Sam and Dean. Like I said, this is two months after season 5b, which happened as canon. I will be pulling a lot of references and characters from my earlier stories, even the TVD ones, but if you haven't read those, the references can probably be glossed over. The title is a Led Zeppelin song. I should be updating the story on or before next Saturday. Thank you guys so much for the support for the last story, and without further ado, here is the next! As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 1

What Is and What Should Never Be

Stiles woke up with a groan, his back popping strangely as he stretched his hands towards his white ceiling, before twisting to the side to reach for his nightstand. It wasn't his choice move. Based on the light filtering gently through his windows, it couldn't have been later than 8 a.m, and on a Saturday, this type of behavior was inexcusable. But Stiles was willing to sacrifice his weekend morals if it meant silencing the shrill noise emanating from his treacherous cell phone once and for all.

In truth, the intruding ringing had been a relief. Stiles had been having _that_ dream again; the dream where he and Scott were walking in the woods, and he had twelve fingers on his hands. The woods had somehow morphed to Allison's death, only Stiles was holding the katana, not some faceless Oni. _That_ morphed to New Orleans, where he descended a grand staircase with two kinds of sociopaths and a silver mask on his face. At the bottom of the staircase, Stiles' foot had reached for a stone floor but found only grass as he stumbled next to the nemeton, Derek at his side and Kevin across from him, Theo's claws in his neck. Instead of letting Kevin go, however, like what had actually happened in reality, Theo instead flashed a trademark grin before tearing out Kevin's throat, splattering Stiles with his comrade's blood.

 _Stop that._ Stiles chided, sitting up with phone in hand and hitting himself on the side of the head repeatedly. _It was just a dream._ A disturbingly old dream, but a dream nonetheless. When the first occurrence of him and Scott in the woods had happened, the night the Alexander/Meredith debacle was solved, it had been a warning about his possession. The world had gone to hell in a handbasket the next morning. But even after the nogitsune, Stiles still had the dream, along with the new addition of Allison's death. He hadn't been there, he hadn't seen her lose her life, but he knew enough details to imagine it. Horrifically. As Stiles' life got stranger and stranger, more and more occurrences were added to the dream. Sometimes, one of the many assassins that had tried to kill them made an appearance, other times, the Doctors reared their ugly heads. Once, even, Stiles was forced to watch Caroline's neck snap in slow motion. That night, he woke up screaming.

Now, though, Stiles held his phone, still ringing, in his hands. He looked at the caller ID and almost dropped it into the soup of covers around his legs.

 _Sam Winchester._

"Why the hell..." Stiles murmured. He hadn't seen Sam since the morning after the fall, months ago, when he and Dean had left Beacon Hills for good, and Stiles had whispered never to come back. He hadn't spoken to Sam since then, either. Stiles cancelled their weekly calling sessions, spending his Sundays instead with people who actually cared about him. Eventually, Sam had gotten the message, and stopped trying to reach him.

Stiles never had any missed calls from Dean.

Cas texted him updates occasionally, but nothing major.

So why the hell was one of them calling him now, two months after him telling them to scram?

As Stiles pondered this question, his phone continued to ring. And ring... and ring... and Stiles was running out of time to answer it. On the one hand, Stiles really didn't want to talk to Sam. On the other, he also knew that Sam also didn't want to talk to him. Which probably meant something bad was going down, and Sam was calling him as a last resort.

On the third and final hand, it had been two months, and Stiles' shoulder still hurt. He didn't trust Sam, not anymore. Both he and Dean had shattered something that would not be repaired for a very long time. Sam got himself into trouble? Sam could get himself out of trouble. Or better yet, Dean could sell his soul again and do it for him. That was the way it always went down, right? And then when the two had dusted themselves off and wiped away the blood of anyone who got in their way, they turned to Stiles, and wondered why he was so angry with them..

Screw it.

Stiles let the phone ring again, until the screen went black and Sam was abandoned to an uncertain fate.

Things might have turned out differently if Stiles had been the bigger person, if he had answered the call. Or not. There's really no way of knowing. But as Stiles shook his head to clear the troubled thoughts that sifted through his sleepiness, and as he gallantly threw his covers aside in preparation of the brave task of getting out of bed, and as his feet touched the carpeted floor that had been warmed by the morning sunlight, things were already set in motion. Poor Stiles had no idea.

Stiles, clueless as he was, stood up with another groan, stretching again.

Believe it or not, this wasn't the strangest start to his morning.

But first, he needed some coffee.

Someone must have read Stiles' mind because he came downstairs to find the coffee pot already boiling, a delicious but bitter smell filling the kitchen. The person responsible for this small miracle had his back to Stiles, currently searching through the cabinets for some mugs.

` "Screw being a prophet." Stiles called, causing the person across from him to still. "You're a freaking _saint,_ Kevin."

Kevin turned with a grin, holding two recovered coffee mugs, one of which he set down in front of Stiles' usual seat at the table. "I'm very much aware, thank you."

Stiles grinned, and Kevin grinned back before snatching Stiles' mug away from him so it could be filled.

A few caffeine soaked minutes later, Kevin and Stiles were sitting across from each other in silence, Stiles tracing his fingers across the table, and Kevin studying him.

"Something's bothering you." Kevin said at last. "What is it? Did you have the dream again?"

"Yeah, I had the dream again." Stiles mumbled, the seriousness of the matter catching up with him. "But that isn't what's bothering me." Kevin quirked an eyebrow, and Stiles hastened to explain.

"Sam called me."

Kevin almost dropped his full-to-the-brim coffee mug. As it was, he jumped, and coffee ended up spilling down the front of his shirt. Kevin didn't notice, though, even as his skin was turning red from a slow burn. He was too busy staring at Stiles with horrified curiosity.

"Please tell me with all that used to be holy that you did not answer it." Kevin begged.

Stiles shook his head. "Maybe this will be the day that Sam actually learns to leave a voicemail."

Kevin laughed, but it sounded strangled. Leaning on the counter with his elbows, Kevin's face flited through several expressions- worry, hope, fearfulness, concern,- before settling on purely puzzled, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. "What do you think he wants?"

Stiles shrugged, the epitome of nonchalance, but in his gut, he couldn't help but mirror Kevin's concealed emotions. Worry, hope, fearfulness, concern. Was Sam in trouble? Was Dean ok? Was Cas still dying? Was today the day Sam finally sought to be forgiven? He squashed it all down, though. If Sam wanted forgiveness he could leave a freaking message. Or better yet, he could show up at the damn door acting like he still cared. (Not that Stiles would let him in, of course. The last time he was in arm's length of Sam, his skin crawled and his shoulder burned. No, Sam would have to stay very far away.)

"Why should we care?" he ended up saying. "It's been two months. It'll be a lot more time before they come around."

Kevin shrugged, mimicking Stiles. "I guess. Want some cereal?"

And that was that. Kevin and Stiles had a lovely breakfast, just like every other Saturday morning. Scott stopped by at around ten, bringing Liam, Mason, Corey, and a few video games, just like every other Saturday morning. Eventually Malia, Hayden and Lydia joined them, the nine of them lounging around Stiles and Kevin's living room, gossiping, strategizing, and arguing over who was going to make lunch.

"We had tacos last weekend, Malia." Stiles chided before turning to Scott, who was sitting on the couch across from him, Lydia's feet in his lap. "You hear anything from Isaac?"

Scott nodded. "He's back in New Orleans, trying to figure out how to become a witch. He and Davina are working stuff out... he won't be back for a couple weeks."

"What about Kira and Jackson?" Lydia asked.

Scott sighed. "Still radio silence from Jackson after he bailed. I haven't heard anything from Kira for a while either, but I'm sure she's fine. She'll probably be back soon."

Lydia nodded in understanding. "Well, I think the tacos last weekend were so good, of course we should have them again."

"Danny and Ethan?" Kevin inquired.

"Back on Tuesday. They've still got a few days on their lease in Las Vegas."

"Okay." Kevin said. "In that case, I also vote for tacos."

"Excellent." Malia said, grinning wolfishly in a way that, despite pleasing her, made Kevin shiver. "Stiles, you're the tie-breaker." she said gloatingly. "Tacos or pizza?"

"An epic showdown for the ages." Mason commented dramatically, while Liam burst out laughing hysterically next to him. "Burnt cheese on soggy bread versus the Americanized Mexican classic. Cheddar versus Mozzarella. Tomato versus spicy salsa. Perfectly toasted corn shells versus the monstrosity Costco dares call a crust-"

"-You've made your point, Mason." Scott chided, doing his best to hold back a smile while he stared Mason down. The two had an epic staring contest, Mason's eye twitching furiously, until finally, with twin sighs, they gave up, turning to Stiles questioningly, who looked very much caught off guard.

"Uh..." Stiles said, his cheeks beginning to feel warm, his palms moist. His heart started racing furiously. Why was he always the tie-breaker? Why must all difficult decisions be foisted on him? What if he chose wrong? What if his call led to disaster, a war, the nuclear apocalypse. This was an impossible task. No one in his shoes could do it, the weight on his shoulders was so heavy, he was staggering into the ground. The pack stared deadly serious at him while Stiles stewed. This was it, the moment of truth. The fate of the afternoon rested on his shoulders. The time had come to choose. Tacos, or pizza?

Stiles took a deep breath. "I choose-" but before he could reveal his choice, there was a knock on the door, two short, powerful raps. Everyone who had been leaning forward eagerly in their seats collapsed in disappointment as Stiles made to disentangle himself from his packmates and head to the door. He had barely walked two steps when Scott's arm shot out, wrapping around his elbow, holding him back. Surprised, Stiles looked down at Scott, and saw his friend's face scrunched up in concentration. Scott was analyzing the person at the door, and he looked worried.

"Problem, Scott?" Stiles asked, and another knock sounded, same as the first. Stiles looked imploringly at the arm wrapped around his elbow, and Scott, albeit reluctantly, released it.

"I don't understand." Scott whispered. "I know who it is, but it's all... wrong..."

The quaint mood of the late morning vanished as all of Stiles' friends leaned forward again, this time with a darker intent.

"Do you want me to get the door?" Stiles asked seriously, "or should I call my dad?" Silently, he looked at Malia, Liam, Hayden and Corey, who all shook their heads, indicating they sensed nothing wrong. Stiles' eyes rested on Lydia, however, whose mouth was pulled into a tight grimace. Seeing Stiles' concern, she waved him away. It was probably nothing. Another knock sounded.

"Get the door." Scott said. "No one else finds anything wrong. I'm probably just being paranoid. I'm sure you'll be happy to see them."

Sitles sent Scott an inquisitve look but neverhteless obeyed, walking the 20 steps from the living room to the door before wrapping his hands around the handle, taking a deep breath, and flinging it open.

The lone figure standing there was so shrouded in stunning sunlight, it took Stiles a full minute to make out it's profile, let alone gender and identity. Once he did, however, he was struck dumb. The guest's hair was a little different. It was longer, combed to the side in a way that Stiles did not like, and his hands twitched, anxious to fix it. His shirt, the newcomer's shirt, was a deep maroon that Stiles had never seen before, the white buttons down the middle and on the pockets forming a kind of ironic cross. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his arms were at his side. His eyes had the same haunted look as always, but with a new mirth that he must have picked up somewhere along the road. His smile, though... Stiles couldn't remember the last time he had seen Dean smile like this. Uninhibited, carefree, grinning from ear to ear like a hunter in a gun store, and not like those small grins that were much more frequent, like when Dean had felt guilty to be happy while his world crumbled around him. Now, though, Dean's smile lit up the freaking room. Or at least it did once he shoved Stiles aside and invited himself into the house.

"Dean-" Stiles said reproachfully, a little thrown from the manhandling. "What are you doing here?"

"What, a guy can't drop by to visit his baby brother?" Dean asked gleefully, looking around and seeing Stiles' pack in the next room..

"Well... no. What's going on? Where's Sam?" Stiles asked, concerned. Sure, he was glad Dean wasn't walking around with an anvil on his shoulders, but he was almost too jovial to make any logical sense. Something was off, and every single watt Dean added to his smile set off another alarm bell in Stiles' brain. Also, where the heck was Sam, and did this have anything to do with the call earlier? Also, why was he here? Why now?

Dean's smile faltered for a millisecond at the mention of Sam, but it was so quick, Stiles might have imagined it. "Sam's... busy." Dean said, completely transparent and unconvincing, but also sounding like he didn't care if anyone called him out on it. This worried Stiles. But as he opened his mouth to voice said worries, he was slammed into the wall as Dean strode past him into the next room, where all of Stiles' friends were sitting rigidly still.

"Kevin!" Dean roared, and the former prophet flinched. Good, Stiles wasn't the only one picking up on how _wrong_ this all was. What wasn't good was Kevin's obvious panic.

"Dean." Kevin mumbled, back ramrod straight, looking grateful to be sandwiched between Liam and Malia, who looked at Dean with glares just shy of threatening. Dean was oblivious.

"Dean," Stiles said, recovered from being shoved into the wall, and sidling up next to his brother at the entrance to the living room. "Why don't you come with me into the kitchen. We can talk there." Stiles did not want to talk. Stiles did not want to talk to Dean. At all. But his friends looked poised to attack, and Stiles would draw the line at a massacre.

"Sure!" Dean chirped, and Stiles had to hold back a double-take. "I didn't mean to crash your party!"

 _Sure you didn't._ Stiles thought bitterly, but as he was leading Dean into the next room, Scott spoke up.

"You sure that's a good idea, Stiles?" he asked, voice laden with something foreboding, almost fear, like he was trying to tell Stiles something without saying it outright. "Maybe I should come and-"

Dean's head whipped around fast and he stared at Scott with unhindered intensity. Scott recoiled then proceeded to make himself as small as possible on the couch, all under the weight ot Dean's glare. "On second thought," Scott continued, his voice strangely higher pitched, "you and Dean should probably talk alone. Yeah. See you in a few."

Stiles hit Dean on the arm in frustration as the two made their way into the kitchen, but secretly, he was relieved. _That_ was more like the regular Dean. "Have a seat." Stiles said in a clipped tone, gesturing to the two chairs which he and Kevin had occupied an hour earlier. Dean picked the one closest to the door, and Stiles walked around the table to sit across from him, after setting the mountain ash and wolfsbane mixture over the doorway.

"So." Dean said, drumming on the wooden table, humming some old rock song as he did so, "You're probably wondering why I'm here."

"Way past wondering, Dean." Stiles drawled, leaning back with his arms crossed. "I'm beginning to think you've finally followed through with your threat of going crazy. It's been only _two months._ You and Sam have definitely had fights longer than this, and I'm the one who said never to come back."

"Me and _Sam,_ " Dean replied, snarling through his brother's name in a way that made Stiles' eyebrows raise, "are also fighting at the moment, in a way."

"Uh-huh." Stiles said dryly. "So you come crawling back to your other brother, for what, forgiveness? A place to stay?"

"A message." Dean growled, expression souring, a far cry away from the happy man Stiles had opened the door to. "Sam's going to call you, and he's going to tell you something ludicrous. He's got the wrong idea about things. Don't listen to him, just trust me."

"You're kidding me, right?" Stiles asked with an incredulous laugh, because _what?_ "Dean, I don't trust either of you!" he hissed, trying to keep his anger from raising his voice. The werewolves couldn't hear this conversation, but Kevin, Mason, and Lydia could if Stiles wasn't careful. "Alright, I am not trusting either of you again after the crap you guys pulled last time you were here! The kid sitting next to Malia in the next room over? You freaking _stomped on his throat_ until he passed out. And don't even get me started on Kevin."

Dean frowned. "I don't care what you think of me, Stiles, as long as you don't believe Sam. He's not in his right mind right now."

"Was he ever?" Stiles chided. "Are you? What the hell makes you so sure he's gonna call, anyway? It sounds like you two are a bit out of touch."

Dean grimaced. "I know my brother." he said, a phrase he's said a thousand times, but this time the words were twisted to be sharp and bitter.

Stiles sighed. "That you do. It so happens he's already called."

Stiles said that to gauge Dean's reaction, and he was not disappointed. Dean had spent the past few minuets coiled like a snake, and now he struck. He stood up sharply, slapping his palms down hard on the table with a _thunk!_ so loud, even the werewolves would be able to hear. He leaned forward menacingly and shoot Stiles his most 'liquify-your-kidneys' glare. It took all of Stiles' instincts not to flinch at the sudden movements, noise, and change in demeanor.

"And?" Dean asked deathly quiet, a stark contrast to his overbearing presence. "Did you answer?"

"No." Stiles said swiftly, softly, doing his best to not show how internally freaked out he was. It seemed to do the trick, for that one word cut the strings on Dean's anger. Suddenly he was relaxed, leaning back in his chair with an easy smile.

"You know I could always call him back, though, right?" Stiles asked, eyeing the doorway out of the corner of his eye. He was beginning to regret sealing the two of them in there. Dean clearly wasn't emotionally stable, (well, more so than usual), and Stiles had no idea what the hell was going on. He needed backup, pronto.

"Doesn't matter." Dean said with an easy shrug- _wrong wrong wrong wrong_ \- "I got to you first. There's no way you'll believe him now."

"That is flawed logic." Stiles mused dryly. "But go ahead, state your case. Why should I trust you and not Sam?"

Instead of answering, Dean hummed, drumming on the table again, and if Stiles focused, he could almost make out the tune. It was very familiar.

"Sam tell you anything about what's been going on?" Dean asked, his hands dutifully tapping out what looked to be a drum solo.

"Well, no," Stiles began, as Dean resumed humming the guitar riff. "But you haven't either."

"I was ashamed about Gadreel. Sam didn't have much of an excuse."

The nonchalance of Dean's tone threw Stiles a little off. "You gave him one." Stiles retorted. "How do you think he felt, being possessed? I speak from experience when I say it changes how you see people." Dean's mouth curved upwards in a small half-smile at that but Stiles ignored it. Dean didn't like talking about the nogitsune. "But believe me, Sam had plenty of his own reasons." Stiles' shoulder gave a painful twinge, as if he needed reminding.

Dean nodded, as if considering Stiles' point of view. He spent several more minutes humming and tapping, and Stiles was beginning to grow restless. Dean was doing this on purpose, stringing Stiles out, so he would be totally rattled when Dean decided to drop whatever bombshell of info he clearly thought he had.

Stiles cleared his throat. "Look, you gonna keep humming, or are you going to tell me-"

"-did Sam tell you I died last month?"

"What?" Stiles' mouth dropped open and hit the floor, because _What?_ Aside from being a dick move, Dean just sat and and smiled and hummed, taking in Stiles' flusteredness, like he hadn't just used the oldest trick in the book.

"No." Stiles said incredulously. "He didn't. Probably cause you're not dead, Dean. C'mon, even for you that's a little low."

"Yeah, you're probably right." Dean said casually, humming the opening bars of that song, nodding his head to the rhythm _._ "I'm not dead. I'm worse. But as for being low-" Dean leaned forward, suddenly, and Stiles nearly jumped back from the sudden movement. He didn't, though, which is why he and Dean's faces were inches apart when Dean's eyes flashed black.

"You have no idea."

This time Stiles did jump back. He stood up, so quickly that his chair tumbled to the floor, and had his silver knife out and raised defensively against Dean in another heartbeat.

"Give me back my brother, you son of a bitch." Stiles hissed, skipping past all the _WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL_ stages of freaking out and moving right into anger, because it was pretty obvious what the hell had happened.

Dean laughed, sharp and _wrong_ \- how had Stiles not noticed sooner?- and also stood, slowly, grinning wolfishly at Stiles' poorly hidden fear.

"I am your brother." Dean said mockingly, but not without threat. He leaned forward again, and Stiles took a step back in disgust. "See, Sam," another grimace as he pronounced his name, "was gonna call and say the bad news. That I died. That my corpse went missing. That Crowley has some demon toting around in my meatsuit. Two out of three ain't bad. But see-" Dean laughed again, and Stiles had never heard a more terrifying sound. The sound of the demon's twisted use of Dean's laugh was akin to the sound of glass sliding against chalkboards, and Stiles just wanted to cover his ears before they started to bleed. He had fought werewolves and Dred Doctors and even his own pack, but this, his own _brother..._

"Sam's wrong." Dean, _the demon,_ gloated with a trademark smug smile. "I'm the demon. Me. Not one of Crowley's cheap pets."

"Sure." Stiles said shakily, eyes darting around the kitchen as he looked for a way out, the knife in his hand shaking in time to his voice. "Sam's wrong. Let's say that's true. Why walk into the home of the only other person alive who can kill you?"

Dean, no, the _demon_ grinned even more smugly. "You can't kill me, Stiles." he taunted simperingly. "Even if you were the better fighter, even you, after all of the horrible things you've done, would draw the line at killing your brother."

Stiles recoiled, because yeah, that kind of hurt. Hearing that opinion come from Dean, even if it was just his voice, stung, and Stiles knew it was all manipulation but his brain was beginning to cloud from anger anyway. Or maybe it was getting more clear. Because now, even with Dean blocking the door, Stiles saw a way out.

"Hey Dean, think fast." Stiles said, and when Dean looked up, Stiles threw his silver knife directly to Dean's chest. It soared through the air fast, but not fast enough. Dean caught it expertly, but Stiles used the precious seconds in between the throw and the catch to leap sideways over the table and then turn into his momentum to kick Dean in the chest. Dean, still reeling from catching the knife, was just unbalanced enough to begin to fall backwards. He lashed out and grabbed Stiles' wrist, and the two tumbled over the kitchen doorway and the line of mountain ash, Dean on his back, and Stiles flung on his side beside him.

Stiles scrambled to his feet to the sound of his packmates running over in a panic, and he and Dean stood up at the same moment, locking eyes.

Dean's back was to the front door, but he didn't run. Instead he grinned at Stiles and the pack assembled behind him. "Not bad, kid." Dean taunted. "Not bad."

"Don't call me that." Stiles snarled. "Tell me why you're here and what the hell happened to my brother."

Dean- _the demon_ \- scoffed. "Your little werewolf gang doesn't scare me." he said, casting his black eyes around Stiles' pack, invoking more than a few shudders. "Besides, it isn't you I want at all. I'm looking for Sam, the problem is he can be damn hard to find when he wants to be."

Stiles grimaced. "What, you want bait?" he challenged. "You and I both know how bad of an idea it is to use a Winchester as bait. This won't end well for you."

Dean seemed to look thoughtful for a moment. "Well, I suppose we'll have to see." Then he rushed forward into a flurry of black and green, and everything went black.

When Stiles came to, he was tied to a chair, his hands splayed on the armrests in front of him. They were currently balled into fists, but that would have to change. Slowly, painfully against the ropes, Stiles raised his thumb.

 _One._

Bearings, he needed to get his bearings- no, he needed to deal with the fact that his brother was POSSESSED BY A FREAKING DEMON!

 _Two._

Stiles' chest started to heave rapidly, the threat of a panic attack oncoming, but quickly, he squashed it down. He hadn't had a panic attack since falling on top of the nemeton. No way would he break that streak now.

 _Three._

This had to be a dream, right? Maybe it was _the_ dream again, the one he told Kevin about, the one that swirled all of his worst memories then tied them together with a string of fault. His fault.

 _Four._

Except he hadn't told Kevin everything. Sometimes, instead of Stiles holding the bloody knife, it was Sam or Dean, their posture imposing, their faces shadowed. Sometimes Sam ran Allison through with a sword, sometimes Dean tore Kevin's throat out.

 _Five._

Their faces. In every dream, Stiles could never see their faces. Where faces should have been, there was just black, black like Dean's empty eyes.

 _Six._

Demons lie. Demons lie. Some sick bastard was riding around in Dean's skin while Dean was helpless, trapped, or already dead.

 _Seven._

No. Dean was never helpless, never trapped. Either Dean was gone and dead, nothing but a corpse that Stiles couldn't save, or...

 _Eight._

Or that really was Dean. Somehow, his soul had been twisted beyond humanity. Was that even possible? No, demons lie.

 _Nine._

But they do tell the truth, if they think it will mess with you.

Stiles looked at his hands. Nine fingers were held up, splayed and exposed to the air. There was one left, and never had Stiles hoped more that that final digit would morph into two, three, that he could just keep counting until he woke up screaming.

 _Ten._

Stiles' eyes filled with tears. This was real, it was real. Oh, god, it was real, it was all real, and it was all true. In the pit of his gut, Stiles knew it was all true.

Dean was a demon, and this wasn't a dream.


	2. Good Times, Bad Times

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading, and the awesome reviews! So I made a mistake: this story is actually set after 10x03 of Supernatural, but an alternate version where Dean escapes from the bunker, partially cured. Sorry for the confusion. Anyway, this chapter is kinda short, sorry, and a filler, but should get the ball rolling on the rest of the story, which I will remind you, references all the prequels. For those of you asking about the unfinished one, I have only one chapter left, and it ends pretty much how you would expect. It's not really necessary for this, everything can be figured out based on what happens in this story. As for this chapter, the beginning part in italics is a dream, just so it doesn't get confusing. The next chapter should be up by Saturday. As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 2

Good Times, Bad Times

Stiles must have passed out again. Because this was his dream:

 _It was dark. Stiles couldn't see anything, not the moon or the sun, or the hand he waved in front of his face. Actually, he could not move his hand. He couldn't move anything. His whole body was in some kind of stasis, some force pushing him still, no matter how much he thrashed and struggled. He tried to scream, but something grainy poured into his open mouth, choking him. It took him a moment to realize this was dirt, and he could not move because he was trapped underground._

 _It wasn't a grave. There was no coffin, no crossed arms, no horizontal position. His left arm was raised above his head like he had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the open earth. He felt the sand and rocks under his fingernails, and envisioned his hands scraping across the ground, desperate for purchase. He pictured the ten thin claw marks that were all that remained of where he was taken from._

 _Even though Stiles felt like he was squeezed into an impossibly small box, he didn't panic, because he knew what this was. He had had this dream before._

 _This was the death of Theo Raeken._

 _Stiles hadn't been present during this moment. He hadn't gotten to say his goodbyes to his mortal enemy/part time accomplice. So he imagined it instead. Where Scott's story lacked in detail, Stiles supplied it with his own. He saw Kira leap, sword in hand, an avenging angel with heavenly fury, and he saw Theo's eyes widen in fear, a victim rather than a villain. He saw Theo claw desperately for salvation, even going so far as to call to his enemies for help, every imposing trait about him vanishing in a heartbeat as he struggled with his last. He saw Theo sinking down, down, never to return, drowning in the bitter river of revenge. He saw it all, but he wasn't sure how he felt. He played it over in his head a thousand times, and every time, Stiles couldn't help but feel a concoction of joy, anguish, disappointment, and guilt. That was the strongest of all, the guilt._

 _Two months of imagining Theo's final moments, and the only thing Stiles had gleaned was that he was glad he had not been present. Because he would have run forward to save him._

Stiles jolted awake, his mind flooded with darkness and dirt and suffocation. All those thoughts evaporated, however, when he looked up. And saw a single lightbulb swinging over his head. _Oh, great..._ He knew where he was. He was in a room in the treatment plant, the same room Meredith had taken Dean, the same place Stiles had taken Theo, and now, in a surprising turn of events, Dean had taken Stiles.

"Dean?" Stiles asked, because the single light bulb illuminated an empty room, but Dean couldn't be too far away. "Dean?" Stiles tried again. He hated how weak his voice sounded, dried and cracked, like he hadn't had water in days.

Had it been days?

No. Stiles had gotten a new watch, specifically for occasions like these, and he looked at his wrist tied to the armrest of his chair. It was two in the afternoon on the same day he had woken up. It hadn't been days, only hours.

Even though he had gotten the watch expressly for this purpose, Stiles didn't like timing his kidnappings. It made them drag on longer. Therefore he had no idea how long it was before finally, the door to the room (it was more of a closet, really) creaked as the handle turned, and it swung forward to reveal- well, not Dean.

Stiles really shouldn't have been surprised it was him. He always turned up, didn't he, always waltzing into Stiles' stories with a crooked deal and a fix-it snap. Only this time, he looked a little worried.

"Crowley." Stiles growled, and he wished he looked half as ferocious as he sounded.

"Hello, Stiles." Crowley said from the doorway, in an impeccable black suit as always, but he seemed... Off. Less astute, less sure of himself. He held himself in a way that suggested he no longer knew how to hold himself.

"I'm only going to say this once, Crowley." Stiles threatened. "What. The Hell. Is going on?"

"Ah." Crowley said shrewdly. "I'm not sure I'm the best person to ask that. Perhaps your brother."

"Already tried." Stiles said harshly. "And while the black eyes didn't leave much room for interpretation, I'd sure as hell like to know the rest of the story."

Some expression crossed Crowley's face- surprise, or perhaps worry, maybe even concern- but it vanished too quickly for Stiles to decypher.

"No." Crowley said. "Your other brother. Sam."

"Sam?" Stiles asked, and his mind flashed back to the phone call from that morning. The one Stiles had neglected to answer out of silly, petty revenge. His stomach plummeted with the weight of regret. What had Sam known? What could Sam have said that could have prevented this whole situation? Stiles would never know.

Crowley nodded. "Sam doesn't know everything- he's still unsure exactly what happened to Dean's body, but he has a good enough idea. What he does know is what happened before his death, and that's possibly more important than what happened next. I _know_ what happened, mind you, and I know why, but Sam understands Dean's motivation, something I am still at a loss for given it was so suicidally stupid. I know he called you earlier, Stiles. You should have taken that call."

Stiles nodded, regret flooding his system, but not enough regret to not notice something that piqued his interest. He frowned. "You're not supposed to be here."

Crowley looked confused. "Pardon?"

Stiles straightened up as much as he could with the restraints, his brain kicking into gear. His brother turning into a demon was so impossible he could barely handle it, but this, solving a puzzle, this was something he knew how to do. This would keep him thinking.

"You're not supposed to be here." Stiles repeated. "Dean- or whatever the hell he is, doesn't want you talking to me."

'And how do you suppose that?" Crowley asked snidely, but it was too snidely.

Stiles grinned at the challenge. "Well, Crowley, look at you. You've never been very good at hiding your emotions. Your feet have been shifting constantly since you got here. You won't come into this room, as if you're afraid of crossing some line. And you keep glancing down the hallway, like you're afraid someone will come barreling over and discover you."

"You may be right." Crowley said. "This conversation might have been... ill-advised."

Stiles whistled. "Dean must be powerful then. Why else would you be talking to me? You can't keep him in check, and you want my help."

Crowley smirked. "Now, that's where you're wrong, Stiles. I don't want your help." He snapped, and suddenly the ropes around Stiles' wrists turned to ash and disappeared. "I want to help you. More specifically, I want to help you escape."

Stiles lept to his feet, rubbing feeling back into his wrists and shaking out his sleeping feet. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because inadvertently, I promised to keep the nemeton in balance." Crowley said bitterly. "If you weren't tied to that blasted thing I'd be more than happy to let Dean finish everyone off."

Stiles felt the blood drain out of his face.

"Let him?"

Crowley said nothing.

"Crowley?" Stiles asked, beginning to panic. "Where's Dean? Where did he go?"

Crowley's frown was a grim line that set off Stiles' worst fears.

"Crowley!" Stiles' voice reverberated with unadulterated fear.

"He went to Scott's house." Crowley finally said, his head hung in the closest Stiles had ever seen to shame. "He went to kill your pack."

Stiles saw white. The world was a blur as he rose, toppling over the chair, the lightbulb swinging violently from the speed at which he exited the room. Stiles raced across the broad, bluish interior of the treatment plant, only to find Crowley blocking the wide wooden doors.

"Get out of my way, Crowley!" Stiles shouted, chest heaving, heart racing.

"I'm afraid I can't do that." Crowley said. "I do that, and you're as good as dead. Do you have a plan, Stiles? Or were you just going to march over with no guns and no strategy, against possibly the most dangerous demon to ever walk the Earth?"

"I'll figure something out." Stiles said through gritted teeth, fear quickly turning into anger.

"I'm sure you will." Crowley said dismissively. "After Dean has put you six feet under."

Stiles clenched his hands in frustration, his eyes narrowing. "You let me go so I could save my pack." he said. "Let me go so I can save my pack!"

Crowley sighed in exasperation, like Stiles' idiocy personally offended him. "You moron." he said quietly. "I didn't let you go to save them! I did it so you could run away, while Dean was occupied!"

"Occupied by slaying my friends!" Stiles shouted. "Do you know how badly he wanted to do that when he was human? Do you know how he'll make them suffer NOW? Crowley, some part of you has got to give a damn about their lives!"

Crowley looked incredibly reserved, even more so than usual. "You seem to forget, Stiles, that I am the king of Hell. Any so-called feeling I would have towards your pathetic pack is vastly overshadowed by my own self-preservation."

"Well what about the nemeton, huh?" Stiles asked with heartbreaking desperation. "What about all of that crap about balance and keeping us alive? What about Scott and I's connection? That's gotta mean something!" He was grasping at straws, he knew it, but he could not, would not, write his friends off as dead.

Crowley shot Stiles a deadly glare, and it was with stone cold precision that he spoke. "Scott McCall died two months ago, Stiles. The only person still connected to the nemeton is you."

His words stopped Stiles dead in his tracks. Instantly, his shoulders deflated and his hope sunk through the floor. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, dark, and coiling towards his heart. "I don't believe this." Stiles muttered. "You're actually going to let them die."

"Ever think that your friends can fight for themselves, Stiles?" Crowley asked with an odd gleam in his eye.

Stiles stared at the floor as he shook his head. "Not against Dean. Not if it was 10 to 1. He'd kill them all. And laugh while doing it."

"Which is why you need to run." Crowley said firmly. Quickly, he tossed something silver and shiny into the air, and just as quickly, Stiles caught it. He turned it over in his hands, the cool metal being absorbed by his body heat. They were his car keys.

"Wha-" Stiles asked, raising his head and finding Crowley staring at him, again with the odd gleam in his eyes.

"Your Jeep." Crowley said. "It's waiting outside."

"But-" and now Stiles' mind was raised out of sluggish depression, running at a mile a minute to connect all the dots. "That's not possible. You can't go in my Jeep, you can't even touch it. There's a-"

"A devil's trap carved into the ceiling." Crowley interrupted impatiently. "Yes, I know. I admire Mr. Whittemore's handiwork. As it happens, I didn't drive the damned thing. Ms. Martin did. You must have been too busy with your morning activities to notice. She hid it in the surrounding forest, Dean didn't even see it when he brought you here."

Stiles frowned in confusion. "But why would Lydia-"

"Well, it must have had something to do with me warning her of Dean's arrival." Crowley said, not without fidgeting in impatience. "And then it was ultimately her responsibility to get the rest of the pack to safety after you were taken. They left two hours ago."

"You planned this." Stiles said, not missing a beat, and now his heart was slowing and his mind was clearing. Now he could see the gears behind this engineered event. Lydia had been acting odd, even for as good an actress as her. "So they're safe, then?"

"It depends on whether you consider running for their lives as safe." Crowley drawled.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Crowley sighed in annoyance, but did not respond. Rather, he tossed something to Stiles, something light and silver, which Stiles expertly caught. Stiles turned it over in his hands. It was his knife, his little silver knife that was coated in wolfsbane, the knife he had thrown at Dean and abandoned on the floor of his kitchen in his demon-proofed house. The house that Crowley could not enter. There's no way Crowley would have been able to retrieve this knife without someone nearly human assisting him. So it was true.

They were fine. They were safe. They had gotten away.

Dean was still a demon, but none of that mattered if his pack was safe.

Stiles laughed, once, brokenly, and all of the tension melted out of his chest.

Crowley looked a great deal less relaxed. "Okay, your friends are safe." he said urgently. "Now it's imperative that you _get the hell out._ Because Dean's spent god knows how long looking for them, and when he doesn't find them, he's going to to come back here, and when he does, he can't find you. Stiles, GO!"

Stiles nodded once, quickly, and made his way to the double wooden doors. His hand wrapped around the handle like so many times before, and a new purpose filled him. But a stray thought scampered across his brain, a question that had been burning for two months. He stopped and turned back.

"Crowley," Stiles began hesitantly. "I... there's been something I've been meaning to ask you. Two months ago, you let Theo live. You had to have known that even though his body was changed, his soul was still human. You had to have known that he wouldn't go to purgatory. You must have heard what happened to him. And well... I wanted to know..." Stiles trailed off, looking fearful of his own question.

"You want to know if he's in Hell." Crowley surmised. "As much as I'd like to tell you his soul is being boiled alive as we speak, I can't. He isn't there. And I would know."

"Well what the hell does that mean?" Stiles asked angrily, momentarily forgetting his peril.

Crowley sighed. "I suppose that means he's still alive. Now Stiles, go. I'll be in touch."

"Thank you, Crowley." Stiles mumbled, even though his thoughts were racing at a million miles per hour. And then his hand was on the doorknob, sinking into the familiar grooves, and then his eyes were adjusting to sunlight, his wrists still burning from the ropes, and then his hands were gripping the steering wheel, his mind still reeling from seeing his brother's eyes turn black. And then he was on his way, leaving Beacon Hills in the dust, and seeing his destinations spread out before him like a map. There were only so many places he could find salvation: New Orleans, Mystic Falls, Las Vegas, Sioux Falls, Santa Fe, and Lebanon, Kansas. Stiles would have to pick one, and so he did. And as he set his course and went on his way, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the only other person who was every bit as responsible for this as him.

" _It's Sam. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."_

"Sam, it's Stiles." he said to a disheartening voicemail. "You sure as hell have a lot of explaining to do."


	3. Communication Breakdown (Part Two)

**A/N**

 **Hey guys, thanks so much for reading, and the awesome reviews! Here's chapter three! I should probably mention, if it isn't already obvious, that I'm going to be working a lot with dreams in this story. I'm not really sure why, it was just an idea I had, but it's turning out to be really fun. I hope you guys like it too! Anyway, it won't always be like this, but to dispel confusion, the second half of the chapter, (the big italicized section,) is all a dream. The next chapter should be up by next Saturday! As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 3

Communication Breakdown (Part Two)

It didn't take long for Sam to call back.

When he did, Stiles was ready, finger poised over the _answer call_ button like it was a trigger. He answered it lightning fast, and just as quickly put his phone on speaker so he could keep driving.

"Sam?"

"STILES!" Sam said so loudly, Stiles jumped. He winced at the panic laced in it. "Stiles! Thank god you're okay! When you didn't answer my call, I thought I was too late, I thought Dean had-"

"Dean very nearly killed everyone, Sam." Stiles said bitterly. "I don't suppose you'd like to explain why?"

"Ah-" Sam said guiltily, and Stiles imagined what his face looked like. His hair was probably longer. "Yeah, I guess I'd better do that. Well, it's partially my fault... Ok, it's mainly my fault. There was this demon name Abbadon..."

Sam wove his long-winded story of Cain and Crowley and Metatron while Stiles drove in amazement. The highway was beginning to blend into the skyline from Stiles' exhaustion by the time Sam was finished.

"Wow." Stiles said after a moment of dazed silence. "I knew it was an election year, but I didn't know demons were running for office, too."

"This isn't funny, Stiles." Sam's disembodied voice scolded.

"You hear me laughing, Sam?" Stiles retorted. "My pack is scattered around Northern California and I had to trust Crowley to get me out of there alive! Crowley, Sam! The same guy who made Jody choke on her blood right before my eyes! That Crowley! Do you know how insane that is-"

"-the same guy who turned Dean into a demon in the first place!" Sam shouted. "Stiles, what were you thinking-"

"I believe something along the lines of 'OH MY GOD MY BROTHER IS A MURDEROUS DEMON AND I'M NEXT!'" Stiles shouted right back. "I don't know if you're aware of this, Sam, but rationale has a tendency of abandoning you when you're faced with your impending death! At the hands of your own _brother,_ by the way, but I guess you know what you're talking about, because all of this happened because you couldn't keep him locked up!"

"I TRIED!" Sam said. "But when said BROTHER is a supercharged demon who's been studying your weaknesses for your entire LIFE, well, it gets a little DIFFICULT!"

"Well I guess I'm lucky, then." Stiles said scathingly. "Because Dean doesn't know a damn thing about me anymore. Not since he betrayed my trust for the billionth time and let an angel-"

"That's enough." Sam said coldly, and Stiles' tongue wound back into his mouth with the stunning realization that he had gone too far. "Stop and think for a moment, Stiles. Ever consider that Dean wants us to fight? He knows you're mad at me, and he knows that if he got to you before I could warn you, you'd trust me even less. We're possibly the only two people on earth who can take him down. You really want to stay angry?"

Stiles considered the burning pit of fury that settled in his stomach. "Yes." he said reluctantly. "But you have a point. When I told him I didn't answer your call, he was awfully happy."

"He anticipated this." Sam said. "He knows you and me better than anybody else on the planet. He knows it doesn't take much for us to start screaming at each other."

Stiles sighed, a breath that went bone deep and left him empty with worry. "Then what do we do?" he asked. "How do we stop the unstoppable? From what you've told me, he can't be killed. Not with that mark on his arm."

"Let me worry about that." Sam said calmly. "I'm at the bunker, I can do some research. You need to get your pack together, get them all to safety. Dean will be furious that they escaped from him, so furious he'll try to hunt them down and kill them all simply out of spite. You need to keep them safe and bring them together. It'll take all of us to stop Dean."

"I know what you're doing, Sam." Stiles said, but with more exhaustion than anger. "You're hoping I drag this out, so Dean keeps chasing us, buying you time to find a way to save him."

"No, Stiles-"

"It's alright." Stiles said. "I would have done the same thing. Except I'm not willing to gamble my friend's lives." he glanced at his cell phone, at Sam. "Which is why I'm making sure Dean will come after me."

Even 500 miles away from each other, Stiles felt the exact moment Sam realized what he was talking about.

"Stiles-" Sam said, horrified. "Your phone-"

"When Lydia told the pack to run, she probably told them to destroy their cell phones." Stiles interrupted nonchalantly, his eyes zeroing in on the road in front of him. "She probably realized, just as you have, Sam, that it wouldn't take Dean very long to figure out how to trace them. And while that means I can't contact my pack, it also means Dean can't find them."

"You didn't-"

"Of course," Stiles continued, raising his voice over Sam's protests. "I didn't destroy my phone. And since Dean's my brother, he also knows how best to trace it. I believe he's done that to you before."

"Stiles- you idiot-"

"Mine's the only signal he's going to find." Stiles said, uncharacteristically calm. "I am the only lead he has. He'll have no choice but to head to me."

"It isn't too late!" Sam said desperately. "Do you hear me, Stiles? You're probably still in California, you can kill the signal now and go anywhere, any state, disappear off of the face of the earth! Dean will never find you!"

"But he might find Scott." Stiles said sullenly. "Or Lydia, or Malia, or Kevin or Liam, and I can't take that chance. The only way I'll know they're safe is if he comes after me."

"Stiles, this is insane!" Sam said frantically. "This is exactly the kind of kamikaze behavior you warn me about! Dean's going to find you, and he's going to kill you, and then all of your friends are going to die anyway. Sacrificing yourself like some martyr isn't going to help them!"

"I'm not going to sacrifice myself!" Stiles said harshly. "I said I'd lead him to me! I never said I wouldn't fight back!"

"You can't take him on by yourself!" Sam pleaded.

Stiles sighed. "I guess you're right. That's why I'm headed to you."

Silence.

"Sam..." Stiles said evenly. "I'm heading to you. I'm going to buy you time. Have that trap ready when I get there, and then we'll finish this game."

"Stiles-" Sam said dishearteningly, "this is dangerous, even for you. Who says you'll even make it to Lebanon?"

"I do." Stiles said firmly, confidently. "I'm going to make it there, we're going to save Dean, and Sam, then we're going to fix things. You, me, Dean, and Kevin."

"Oh god." Sam said mournfully. "Kevin."

"It's all right, Sam." Stiles said soothingly. "It'll all work out. Let me do my part. You do yours."

"I don't like this." Sam said, his dark tone melding perfectly with the darkening sky. He sighed. "But if you insist on carrying this out, leave your phone on. Keep it with you at all times. Try to stay isolated from the rest of the pack. Don't contact them until it's all over. And above all, keep me updated."

"You got it, Sam!" Stiles said cheerfully, performing a salute his brother could not see. "I'll see you on the other side."

"Goodbye, Stiles. And good luck."

Stiles quickly pulled over to the shoulder of the highway, then hung up. As soon as he did so, his reluctantly creeping smile melted into a look of cold determination. He plucked his phone from the passenger's seat and unbuckled his seatbelt, sliding out of the jeep with ease. Outside, the world was caught between evening and night, a blue mist filling the air as the sun set. The blue light camouflaged the jeep perfectly as Stiles stepped in front of it, bending down and placing his phone in front of the right front wheel. Then, quickly, carefully, Stiles slid back into his car, turning the ignition, hearing the old engine sputter to life, the highway suddenly flooded with yellow light. With a grimace, Stiles shifted the car into drive, and inched forward carefully. With every crunch of glass and metal, Stiles winced, until finally, it ceased. Then, Stiles put the car in reverse and endured it again. And again, and again, until Stiles' phone was reduced to dust. No one, not even Dean, would be able to trace it now.

Stiles collected the dust and scattered it along the shoulder, and then before long he was barreling down the highway at a breakneck pace, completely untraceable.

Okay, so he had lied to Sam. Big deal, Stiles lied to a lot of people. It was why he was so good at what he did. Yes, Stiles wanted to save his pack from the fury of Dean Winchester, or what was left of him, but no, Stiles wasn't naive enough to think he could win a cross-country game of cat and mouse. And he certainly couldn't run to Sam. If Dean escaped from Sam before, then he would do it again, and Stiles barely trusted his brother with his life, let alone his pack's. Could he be playing into Dean's hands? Possibly. But at least like this it would take a little longer to find out. No, Stiles could not run. So he would have to hide.

He also certainly wasn't going to Lebanon. No, that would be way too obvious. He couldn't go to Mystic Falls, either. Although he had a lot of friends there, he also had just as many enemies. Las Vegas was out. It was too close to home, and Danny and Ethan weren't equipped for Dean. He wouldn't put Jody through this ever again. No, there was only one place left for Stiles, the only place in the world where the knowledge of his crimes was safe from Dean: New Orleans.

It wasn't until one hour later that it hit him.

"Oh, SON OF A BITCH!" Stiles groaned, placing two fingers on the bridge of his nose in aggravation. So stellar was his untimely revelation, that he swered his car magnificently, and almost drove it over all together. As it was, he pulled over, the same few sentences ricocheting around his head, creating an unpleasant echo of guilt and fear.

" _Your little werewolf gang doesn't scare me." Dean said, casting his black eyes around Stiles' pack, invoking more than a few shudders. "Besides, it isn't you I want at all. I'm looking for Sam, the problem is he can be damn hard to find when he wants to be."_

 _Stiles grimaced. "What, you want bait?" he challenged. "You and I both know how bad of an idea it is to use a Winchester as bait. This won't end well for you."_

Dean, the demon was looking for Sam. Dean wanted Stiles to get to Sam. That was his so-called reason for bursting into Stiles' home and ruining his life. But Sam hadn't moved since Dean had escaped from him.

Dean was lying. That wasn't much of a surprise.

But _why_ was Dean lying? That was a question that would eat at Stiles' brain for days, or however the hell long it took to end this. Yes, demons lie, but they tell the truth, too, if they think it will mess with you. Being used as bait for Sam? That would mess with Stiles. A lot. Dean knew this. So... if that wasn't the real reason for his return... then what the hell was?

Stiles groaned again, and banged his head against the steering wheel in frustration. Said action accidentally caused the car to honk, but he couldn't care. His brother was a killer demon. His other brother was useless. He was exhausted, beaten, kidnapped, run from his only home in a span of hours, tired, confused, concerned, fearful... and more alone than he had ever felt in his life. Scott and Lydia and Malia and Kevin seemed eons away, unreachable. Stiles needed friends. He needed allies. He needed familiarity. He needed a plan. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

He needed to get some sleep. It would be a _long_ drive tomorrow.

Stiles found a cheap motel and rented a room with the cash he kept in his car for emergencies. (He also had spare changes of clothes, hunting weapons, food, water, toothpaste... What? He was paranoid sometimes.)

He crashed on the bed and hoped for a dreamless sleep.

Naturally, he didn't get his wish.

 _Maybe it was because he was heading to New Orleans, and dredging up so many old memories. Because Stiles didn't dream about Scott, or Lydia, or anyone else from his current pack. He dreamt about Isaac._

 _Stiles and Isaac were sitting opposite each other, cross legged on the floor of the vast atrium of the treatment plant. The sun was up, and shining through the blue-tinted windows, making Isaac look mysterious in the periwinkle light. As it was, he looked wrecked, wearing a rumpled suit and carrying scratches and gouges on his face._

" _Stiles," Isaac said fearfully, "you have to get me out."_

" _I know, Isaac."_

" _No you don't!" Isaac shouted, his fist nearly flying in rage. "You don't know what it's like to be trapped in your body while a 1,000-year-old psycho terrifies everyone around you-"_

 _Isaac stopped, looking at the ground with pure horror, and he slowly tilted his chin up, meeting Stiles with apologetic eyes._

" _I'm sorry-"_

" _It's all right, Isaac." Stiles interrupted sagely. "I do understand. You know that. That's why I'm going to save you."_

 _Isaac sniffled, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "You can try." he said sullenly. "I know what will happen next. You'll try, oh, you'll try so hard, but ultimately my imprisonment will become a sacrifice for the fate of the rest of the world."_

" _What?" Stiles asked, mouth agape. "Isaac, when has that ever happened? I've saved everyone, I've always saved everyone! The only time I couldn't is when-"_

" _-you couldn't save yourself." Isaac said with bitter tears. "I know. But this is what's going to start to happen, isn't it. There will be one you can't save, because it was truly impossible. There will be the one you can't save, because you weren't there. There will be the one who's not worth saving. And then, then there will be the one you could save, but you didn't. Maybe the rest of the world was in danger. Maybe you have some other excuse. Or maybe you just didn't want to._

" _That's not going to happen!" Stiles said with panicked forcefulness. "I will always save who I can. And I've saved everyone!"_

 _Isaac's mouth set into a grim line of disapproval._

" _You didn't save me."_

 _The voice came from behind Stiles, and he whirled to face the speaker. And then he stumbled in alarm. There, before him, looking as alive as the last time Stiles ever saw him, was Theo._

" _You- you-" Stiles stuttered for a suitable response._

 _Theo tilted his head to the side, analyzing Stiles, his mouth twitching into the faintest of cocky grins. "Face it, Stiles," he said, "Isaac was right. You didn't save me."_

" _I- I-" Stiles tried desperately, but his mind went blank with guilt. "I couldn't."_

" _Okay." Theo said with a shrug. "Sure, whatever. You couldn't. Unless you had, you know, tried harder. I didn't have to die that night, Stiles, if none of the pack had wanted me dead."_

" _But- you-"_

" _Deserved it?" Theo finished with a bitter smile. He crossed his arms. "I don't think I did. But maybe I'm just biased. I should have known that you're the authority on who can live and who can die, am I right?" He shot Isaac a sarcastic grin, one that Isaac returned._

" _No one deserves to be dragged to their grave by their dead sister, Stiles." Theo said a great deal more seriously. "Even someone who tried as hard to be deserving as myself. I didn't have to kill Josh and Tracey, Stiles. With a little nudging in the right direction, you might have prevented my own self destruction."_

" _I can't be responsible for that!" Stiles finally snapped angrily, images of Tracey and Josh's crudely abandoned bodies flashing through his mind._

 _Theo smirked again. "I know, Stiles. And yet, you do feel responsible. You're wracked with guilt. It's why you're having this dream."_

 _Stiles looked down at his twelve-fingered hands and sighed deeply. "I know."_

 _Isaac's smirk mirrored Theo's. "And why you've had this dream before." he said, uncharacteristically smugly. "Almost every night, in fact."_

" _Two months." Theo whistled. "That's a long time to feel guilty for three dead chimeras."_

 _Stiles ignored him. Instead, he locked eyes with Isaac. "You didn't die." he said sternly. "I saved you."_

" _Did you?" Isaac asked. "Well, that's news to me. If I recall correctly, Matt saved me. You were too busy on your own crazy-train. Well, my mistake. I blame uncorrectable mental trauma for not thanking you properly."_

" _You know, maybe it wasn't Tracey's death." Theo mused behind them, completely unaware of their conversation. "Or Josh's. Maybe you feel so guilty for letting everything get out of hand, for having the beast kill hundreds of innocent people and not realizing that it's human form was_ right under your nose the whole time. _Maybe you feel guilty for going back on my offer to work with you, instead going to Scott and making him hate me even more. Maybe you realize that if we had worked together, we might have ended everything sooner, and saved the lives of countless civilians, not to mention Tracey, Josh, and..." Theo looked down at his own body, which was suddenly covered in dirt. "Me."_

 _Stiles childishly slapped his hands over his ears. "I realize." he said through gritted teeth, even though his heart hurt to do so._

 _Theo shot Isaac an amused glance. "See? Told you I could do it."_

 _Isaac grimaced. "Whatever." he looked at Stiles' heartbroken form with no sympathy._

" _I'm sorry." Stiles said weakly, not looking at Theo or Isaac, but speaking to both of them._

 _Theo sighed. "You've had this dream a hundred times, Stiles, and a hundred times I've told you that it's worthless to apologize. But today, I might just change my mind."_

 _Stiles looked up from the floor in surprise. "Why?"_

 _Isaac rolled his eyes. "Recent events have caused us to rethink things." he drawled. "So we've decided that we're better off teaching you a lesson instead of beating you down."_

 _Stiles blinked. "What?"_

" _You can't keep doing this, Stiles." Theo said, joining Isaac cross legged on the floor. Together, they sat across from Stiles, staring him down. "You can't keep thinking everything that happens to your friends is your fault."_

 _Stiles blinked again, twice, confused. "You guys have made it pretty clear that what happened to you_ is _my fault."_

 _Isaac laughed, harshly. "Stiles, you didn't make me leave Beacon Hills, you didn't make me head to New Orleans."_

 _Theo chuckled. "From what I can tell, now you've left Beacon Hills and are headed to New Orleans." His gaze turned a little more serious. "But you also didn't make me kill my sister, and set everything in motion."_

" _You certainly didn't make Kol Mikaelson possess me." Isaac chirped._

" _And while it's true you weren't there when Kira dragged me six feet under," Theo continued, "how the hell could you have known?"_

 _Stiles lowered his eyes to the floor in shame._

" _Here's the thing, Stiles." Isaac said. "You have to stop doing this. You have to stop feeling guilty for things that are so obviously out of your control."_

" _You do that," Theo said. "And you'll start breaking your back solving problems that aren't yours."_

" _Leaving less time for the people you care about." Isaac continued. "And less time for when_ they _get into trouble."_

" _Leaving you with less energy, less solutions, and a whole lot more guilt." Theo said with a grim frown._

" _Which means you'll do something drastic." Isaac said grimly. "And in your world, drastic tends to mean catastrophic."_

" _And a whole lot more people will get hurt." Theo said forebodingly. "And the cycle starts again."_

 _Stiles nodded, and took a deep breath. "And then what?" he asked, with all the dread in the world._

 _Theo and Isaac looked at each other. Theo nodded. "And then," Isaac said, "and then you're no better than Dean."_

 _Stiles looked up sharply, surprised. "I- that can't happen!"_

" _But it will." Theo said. "Or at the very least, you're concerned it will."_

 _Stiles shook his head. "Dean was-"_

" _Dean was just trying to save his brother." Isaac snapped. "And look at you, running across the country to save your friends. Are you willing to risk everything, Stiles? Because if you are, everything doesn't just mean your life. It means theirs."_

" _You're headed to New Orleans." Theo mused. "Ready for it to become a mass grave?"_

" _You're foolish to think Dean can't track you." Isaac said with a gleam in his eyes. "Ready for me to become dead for real?"_

" _That's not going to happen!" Stiles said angrily, his guilty haze snapping._

" _Why?" Theo challenged with a simperingly mocking grin. "Because you'll stop him? You?"_

" _YES!" Stiles shouted, standing up in rage, glowering down at the smugly sitting Isaac and Theo. "Yes! Me and my pack, we'll stop him! Or has your untimely death made you forget that they're perfectly capable and can fend for themselves?!"_

 _Theo grinned, ear to ear in pure, unsettling joy, and Isaac mirrored him perfectly. Together, they stood, slowly, languidly, dusting themselves off with smugness, clearly pleased with themselves._

" _Well, would you look at that." Isaac said._

" _I haven't forgotten that, Stiles." Theo said with a wicked grin. "But it would do_ you _well to remember that. Your pack can protect themselves. Remember that the next time you're looking to carry the world on your shoulders." He and Isaac turned toward the wide double doors of the treatment plant, and began walking, their footsteps casting light blue shadows, but before long, Theo turned back, almost as an afterthought._

" _One more thing, Stiles." he said deviously. "I believe today was the day you found out I'm not dead after all."_

" _Goodbye, Stiles." Isaac said to the dumbstruck hunter. "I suspect both of us will be seeing you very soon."_

Stiles woke up in his motel room on the side of the road in an unknown town in a yet-to-be determined state. It was still dark out, but he didn't care. He got into his car and drove.


	4. Travelling Riverside Blues

**A/N**

 **Hey guys, thanks so much for reading, and for the fantastic reviews! So, as you know, this story is partly a continuation of The Ultimate Battle of Wits, which is unfinished. My plan for the end of the story was that Kai doesn't die, and the heretics never get released, i.e. season 7, and what happens to Elena, doesn't happen. This story won't work with the tvd plot, though, just the characters, so if you don't know the plot, that's okay. As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 4

Traveling Riverside Blues

Kevin woke up on a sofa with sunlight pouring into his eyes. He squinted against the harsh light before sitting up, hazily taking in his surroundings. He wasn't at home, he wasn't in the bunker... He was in a small living room, with unassuming furniture and crisp, white walls. Said walls were adorned with large windows that gladly let in sunlight, and with this light, Kevin was able to make out an adjoining kitchen, a hallway, a staircase, a front door, and someone less than five feet away from him staring at him intently.

"Ah!" Kevin yelped, stumbling back into the sofa. Danny lept too, nearly knocking over the coffee table.

"Sorry!" Danny said, wringing his hands in agitation. "Sorry, I wanted to see if you were up! Ethan was going to make breakfast, and I figured you'd want some!"

"No, no, it's fine." Kevin said with a wave. "Sorry, I shouldn't have freaked out. It's just been a stressful few days, that's all."

"Man, I can't even imagine!" Danny said sympathetically. "Dean terrified me when we were on the same side! I didn't even interact with him that much, and I wanted to run scared. If he's a demon now... Stiles told me about Alexander. I can't think of what Dean will do."

"You're right." Kevin said. "You can't imagine. Alexander was like... well, he was like Peter Hale. Not very deadly, easy to subdue once they found him. Dean is like the alpha pack. No, he's like the alpha pack rolled up into one person. Ok, so he's like Deucalion. Or if Deucalion were on steroids. And immortal. And immune to mountain ash. And hanging out with the King of Hell. And-"

"Kevin." Danny interrupted, concerned. "I got it. But don't worry. This house has iron fixtures, and salt embedded into all of the floorboards. He can't get in here."

"Stiles' house has that." Kevin said, concerned. "Plus a key of Solomon on the ceiling of every room. Dean got in there just fine."

A look of worry flashed across Danny's face, but it was so brief, Kevin might have imagined it.

"It doesn't matter." Danny said firmly. "You were right to come here."

"You and Ethan hardly know me." Kevin mumbled. "And you're letting me crash knowing the most dangerous demon ever is chasing after me."

"I don't need to know you." Danny said. "I fought with you. We took down the Dred Doctors together. That's a better judge of character than I'll ever get from 'knowing you'. Plus, any friend of Stiles is a friend of mine. The guy's saved my life more times than I know about, the least I can do is give his roommate a place to stay."

Kevin smiled. "Thanks, Danny."

"Breakfast!" Ethan called from the kitchen. Naturally, he wasn't wearing a shirt.

Lydia woke up to the same sun as Kevin, but in a different timezone. And instead of her eyes drifting lazily open, she was jolted awake by the shrill noise of a screaming teenage girl.

"CLAIRE!"

The scream was so loud and so high, it nearly created a sonic boom, and if Lydia listened closely, she could hear glass breaking from its pitch. With a sigh, Lydia rolled out of bed, dressed quickly, and went to investigate the noise. Exiting her guest room, she was met in the hallway with the sight of a tall girl with long, if frazzled, brown hair, shaking a curling iron angrily at a cowering blond and surly girl.

"How many times," the brown-haired girl muttered threateningly, "have I told you not to take my stuff? Now I know you've taken my conditioner, and you'd better give it back, because, if you don't, my hair won't dry properly. And then it'll be a mess, and it won't curl-

"And then you won't look good for your date tonight?" The blond girl simpered, with _way_ too much sass.

"YES!" The brown-haired girl shouted exasperatedly. "Because I have a boyfriend, and I'm trying to be normal, and normal people freak out when their hair doesn't curl properly! So can you please just give it back?"

Blondie crossed her arms and opened her mouth, looking 100% ready to give some smart remark, but then her eyes landed on Lydia, and her face fell. The brunette whirled, and her anger positively wilted.

"Oh-" Alex- _Alex, that's what her name is!_ \- said, looking embarrassed. "Sorry, Lydia. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's alright." Lydia said. Her eyes flashed from the disgruntled blondie- _Claire_ \- to Alex, to Alex's frizzy hair, and an idea sparked in her mind. "I don't mind, I like waking up early. I also like doing people's hair. If you want, I can fix yours?"

Claire rolled her eyes in disgust, but Alex looked positively joyful. She thrust her curling iron at Lydia with a barely contained squeal.

Scott, unlike Lydia and Kevin, hadn't slept that night, at all. Even if he could have, his dreams would have been haunted by Dean with his black eyes, by Stiles being flung from his own kitchen, by Scott unable to save him. No, it was for the best that Scott didn't sleep, hands clenched around his steering wheel, a hair away from tearing the whole damn thing off, his eyes glued to the highway as he sped past state after state for 15 straight hours... No, this was better. It was seven a.m. when Scott pulled into his destination, a town he had been to only once, visiting someone he had only met once, and driven across the country with. The sun had barely risen when Scott exited his car and walked up the brick pathway, and rang the doorbell like Stiles had done so long ago.

But he didn't know that story. Not yet. '

For Scott, this wasn't the same place Stiles had stood, sweating furiously, as he anxiously awaited to reveal to two vampires that he was a hunter, and he was hunting them. For Scott, this brick was brand new, and face that opened the door to him wasn't centuries old, but months.

"Scott McCall." Damon Salvatore said as he opened the door a little wider. "Well, this certainly is a surprise."

"Damon." Scott said, remembering their anxiety-inducing odyssey in Stiles' jeep, and the madness in New Orleans that followed suit. "I'm sorry to turn up all of the sudden but... I kind of need your help."

"Well what can I say?" Damon drawled. "When I said 'swing by for a drink sometime,' I meant it." Without another word, Damon turned on his heel and walked into the rich interior of his house, leaving Scott to shuffle in awkwardly after him. Scott caught up to Damon at a small wooden table holding several glass vials, where Damon was pouring amber liquid into two glass tumblers.

"Oh, uh," Scott said when one of the tumblers was shoved rather aggressively under his nose, "thanks, but alcohol doesn't really affect me, and anyway, I'm under 21..." he trailed off, handing the glass back to Damon. Instead of looking offended, Damon merely shrugged, and knocked back both his and Scott's drinks with terrifying speed.

"So," Damon continued, walking to the living room, gesturing for Scott to sit on one of the couches, which he did, slowly. "What's this all about? Is Stiles in trouble again?"

"Uh, kind of?" Scott said, shifting uncomfortably. "Only it isn't so much Stiles but... all of us?"

Damon nodded. "I can understand that. What happened?"

Scott gulped. "I take it Stiles has kept you updated on what's been happening in Beacon Hills?"

"Sure, sure." Damon said with a wave. "Doctors, Theo, Mason, Beast, yeah, I got all of it."

"Did he ever tell you about the angel?"

Damon frowned. "You know, in between warning us about the coming heavenly apocalypse and stuff, I think he actually did mention that. It was Sam, right? Dean screwed up and Sam got possessed and then Stiles got hurt and then his brothers hightailed it out of town. Yeah, that sounds about right. It's a shame. I mean, I never got much of a chance to talk to Dean, what with being busy defeating Katherine and everything, but Sam and I got to chat a little in New Orleans. He seemed nice. It's a damn shame. So, what does this have to do with them?"

"With Sam," Scott said, "not so much. Dean on the other hand... he came back to Beacon Hills. Only he wasn't himself." Scott explained the whole story, from Dean's unwelcome entry the previous morning to Stiles' terrifying kidnapping, to Lydia telling them to destroy their cell phones and move somewhere safe, to his pack's quick decision to separate, with the promise that they would find a way to knit back together when it would all be over.

"And I thought of where I could go." Scott said to a surprisingly attentive Damon. "And I don't really have any family, and my mom's on vacation with the sheriff, and I just- I remembered New Orleans, and how well we all worked together with that, and Stiles speaks so highly of you guys, I just made a rash decision and decided to come here."

"Rash, huh?" Damon asked, leaning against the wall languidly. "You drove across the entire country in fifteen hours. Buddy, that stopped being rash six states ago. I'm not sure that's even physically possible."

Scott deflated, his shoulders hunching over his defeated form. "I might have given new meaning to the word 'speeding.'" he muttered.

"I got no problem with that." Damon said. "What I do have a problem with is the fact that the idiot who saved my life- twice- somehow got himself back into trouble. And with his own brother! I don't know Dean as well as I know Sam, but judging by the look on your face, it can't be good."

"It isn't." Scott said in agreement. "We had to flee Beacon Hills just so he wouldn't kill anyone."

"That won't last long." Damon said. "Demon Dean, or whatever the hell you're calling him, doesn't seem chill enough to let people get away from him alive."

"Hence the running." Scott said. "Personally, I'm hoping he comes after me. That way my friends will be safe-"

"And you'll lead him right to Beacon Hills!" Damon said, loudly, though he didn't sound angry. "Where most of it's residents don't die so easy. I gotta hand it to you, that's smart. I'm hoping he follows you, myself. It's been too damn quiet around here since Kai was thrown into exile, I could use the fight."

"So... you're okay with this?" Scott asked tentatively.

Damon laughed harshly. "I'm more than okay with this. Now, Stefan and Elena might have some qualms about it, but I don't care. Demon or no demon, I'm not heartless enough to throw you back into the wild." He poured himself another drink and tossed it back, shaking his head for clarity. "Get your stuff." Damon said, gesturing vaguely to Scott's car parked outside. "We have tons of extra rooms, and this _is_ a boarding house. You can stay here."

Scott sighed in relief and smiled in thanks. Then he went to his car to get his stuff.

Mason's car, meanwhile, wasn't still. It was barreling down a Nebraska freeway at 90 miles an hour, its driver gripping the wheel with fingers so tight, they might break off.

"Mason, slow down." Liam said, next to him. Meanwhile Corey and Hayden were in the backseat, watching the scenery zip by with terror.

"I'll slow down when we're in Boston." Mason said through gritted teeth, and Liam had to close his eyes and remind himself that Mason was a little different ever since the... _incident,_ more tense, more anxiety prone. It was perfectly understandable, of course, and if fact far too mild a reaction considering what he had been put through, but sometimes Liam found himself wishing for his more carefree friend. He would squash this wistfulness every time it occurred, though, because that wasn't fair to Mason. Mason probably wished from time-to-time that Liam hadn't gotten sucked into the crazy that was Beacon Hills. The point was, he never voiced those opinions, the least Liam could do was offer the same courtesy.

"Why are we going to Boston, again?" Hayden piped up from the back. If her voice was a little higher-pitched than usual, no one commented.

"Mason has family there." Liam responded, since Mason was too busy driving them to their deaths, or a speeding ticket. "It's all the way across the country, he's never brought up his relations there to anyone, he thinks we'll be safe."

"Safe from what?" Corey challenged. "Last I checked, Dean was _immortal._ He'll find us eventually, then what? We're just going to hide forever?"

"Yes." Mason said tersely. "We are going to hide until it all blows over, because this is Stiles' fault and he can sure as hell deal with it!"

Liam and Hayden exchanged worried looks through the rearview mirror.

"Uh... Mason?" Liam asked tactfully. "Whatcha talking about, buddy?"

"Stiles has been telling me things." Mason said, with a clipped voice. "As the only other human in the pack, he figures he and I should have some sort of bond, or whatever. A network, or something. Said he did the same thing to Allison, a little with Lydia, and two dudes named Matt and Jeremy. He's been telling me stories from his hunting, and other things... Things that you can't even imagine, things that Scott probably doesn't know about. Trust me, this is his fault, and he can deal with it!"

"What has he been telling you?" Hayden asked curiously.

Mason's hands, if possible, tightened even more on the steering wheel. "I can't tell you." he said gruffly. "I promised Stiles I wouldn't. It was more like a blood oath, really."

"Look, if you're so loyal to the guy, why are you saying it's his fault?" Corey asked angrily. "Why are you leaving him to deal with this?"

"Because we're in over our heads!" Mason shouted, the morning sunlight glinting furiously off of the car. "Because I don't trust him! Because he made a deal with _Theo,_ our enemy, the guy who's fault it is the Beast happened, _right over my unconscious body_!"

The car stilled. Hayden looked shocked, Liam shrank into his seat, and Corey nearly disappeared out of sheer shame. It was this deal that had brought him back to life, after all.

And the same deal that had doomed Mason's.

"Stiles, he-" Liam said softly, awkwardly, "he never said when it happened. Or where. Just that it did."

"Scott wasn't happy when he found out. How pissed do you think he'd be if he knew it was the two minutes he'd left the two alone? He'd never forgive himself, or Stiles." Mason said, just as softly.

"Then how did you know?" Hayden questioned.

Mason was silent for a moment, and Liam might have imagined this, but his shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly. "Stiles told me." he said finally. "He said he figured I should know. Look, you guys have got the wrong idea. I- I don't hate him, or anything. I'm not abandoning him."

"It sure looks like it." Liam said.

Mason ignored him. "Look, Stiles is really the only other person in the pack who understands what I've been through. He's the only one who knows what it's like to have your body taken over by something supernatural, and slaughter countless people. He knows what it's like to wake up human with an insurmountable blood on your hands. He knows what it's like to try to tell yourself it isn't your fault. Stiles did that over a year ago, and now he's helping me get over it. And in one particular instance, he told me what was actually his fault. And he said if someone ever came to town looking to spill his blood, I should get out and never look back. So I'm respecting his wishes, and I'm doing just that. Understand?"

Liam and Corey nodded, quickly, their heads swimming with this truckload of information. Hayden, however, wore a pensive frown.

"He's not just talking to you, is he?" Hayden asked. "He's not just telling you stories and working through your trama. He's training you to be a hunter, isn't he? Like Allison, like Matt and Jeremy, even a little like Lydia. He wants you out of the fray because you're his legacy."

Mason winced at the note of betrayal in her voice. "You're good." he said at last.

Liam turned around to look at Corey. "Did you know about this?"

Corey's guilty expression gave himself away.

Liam threw his hands into the air exasperatedly. "Does Scott know?"

"Yes." Mason said. "It was part of the deal he and Stiles struck after the whole Theo thing broke. Stiles could do whatever he wanted, but he had to tell Scott if any of his decisions affected the pack. After the Beast thing, well, Stiles decided to train me, and Scott wholeheartedly agreed. Encouraged it, even. But no one else knows."

"Why?" Hayden asked.

"Apart from ruining my chances at being a secret weapon," Mason said grimly, "Stiles didn't want the pack to assume I could protect myself until he was sure I could. He wasn't going to keep it a secret for long, guys. He knows that doesn't work out well."

None of them had been present, but they all imagined the glorious sunset and the blood on the floor, Alexander's body falling to the ground with a final _thump!_

"Wait a minute..." Liam asked. "Do you have weapons in the car? Like in the trunk? Guns and stuff?"

Mason didn't answer.

"Mason, you're already speeding! If we get pulled over-"

Mason was silent.

"God dammit, Mason, if we get arrested while the Sheriff's out of town-"

"We're headed to Boston." Mason said firmly, speaking calmly over his friend's panic, "and we're staying with my family until this blows over, or until Stiles tells me otherwise. And then we'll talk about this more later."

Corey and Hayden his their grins behind their hands at Liam's stunned expression, a normal reaction to finding out your mild-mannered friend was suddenly a badass, in control hunter-in-training.

They sped along the highway, a little less tense than earlier.

"I wonder what Stiles is up to now?" Corey asked after a while. "Lydia said she'd guaranteed he'd get away."

What was Stiles doing at that moment? Well, he was driving his car with tighter fingers than Mason. He wasn't doing anything interesting. Malia, on the other hand, was in one of Braeden's safehouses, an undisclosed location in the Southwestern United States, a cup of coffee in her hand, staring at her cousin with one eyebrow raised incredulously.

"What?" Derek asked.

"You're not even going to ask me why I'm here?" Malia asked.

Derek shrugged. "Braeden says you needed a place to crash, alright, you needed a place to crash. I'm not one to ask questions."

"Clearly." Malia drawled. She took a sip of her coffee, wincing at the bitterness, reminding herself that according to all her friends, it was a necessity to human function. Nevermind that she hated the taste. "But come on, you're not even curious?"

"Nope." Derek said, popping the 'p' for emphasis.

"Fine." Malia said, plopping her mug down with unnecessary force. "But I'm going to tell you anyway."

"Why, so you can ask for my help?" Derek grumbled.

"No." Malia said, "so you can run scared. So you can have a shot at protecting yourself."

Derek, against his instinct, leaned forward. "From what?"

Malia leaned back triumphantly. "Dean Winchester."

"You said you got away." Derek grumbled.

"So you were listening when I was telling Braeden what happened. Good to know." Malia said with a smug smile. "Here's what I didn't tell you. After Stiles tumbled over that threshold, after Dean came roaring at him and knocked him unconscious, he picked up his body like it weighed nothing and headed to the door. We were all in too much shock to do anything, which is what he counted on. But before he left, he turned to us," Malia shuddered as she recalled, "Stiles' head just lolling in his arms, and he said he would not rest until everyone in Stiles' pack was dead. Until he tore us all to pieces. Then he was gone."

"You think he's going to come after you." Derek said. "Not just Stiles."

"I'm sure of it." Malia whispered. "But that isn't all. Dean promised to tear apart Stiles' entire pack. What do you bet he has a long memory?"

"What do you mean?"

The desert sun glinted off of Malia's eyes in the most ironic way as she replied. "Ithink he means a lot more than the eight of us who ran away from Beacon Hills. I think he's going to hunt _everyone_ down, everyone who's ever helped Scott or Stiles or anyone in the name of Beacon Hills. Me. You. Jackson, Isaac, all those people I've never met but heard so much about. All those people I've met once but never forgotten. He's going to come for all of us. I'm not asking for pity. I'm telling you this because I need to leave, and I want you to come with me. Derek, I'm not the only one in danger. We all are."

Derek put his cup of coffee down, and from the twitch of his lips, Malia could tell that he didn't like the taste either. "You said I should run scared."

Malia nodded, the image of that Saturday morning making her cringe.

"Well fine. I'll run. But wolves run in packs, so I'll run to yours. Do you know anyone around here who can help us?"

"Yes." Malia said. "In Santa Fe."

Derek's mouth twitched, ever so slightly, into something that might almost be considered a smile. "Get Braeden, and get a gun. We'll leave in 20."


	5. Royal Orleans

**A/N**

 **Hey guys, thanks for reading, and for the reviews. Speaking of which, on the subject of updates... this is something I covered a lot in my last story, but let me reiterate: I write each chapter, and then I post it, and then I have a blank page for the next one. I'm not ahead, and I don't have anything already written, that's why it takes so long to update. I did start this story during the end of NTAF, but that was literally chapter one, and I've been working from scratch since. I'm sorry it takes so long, but I write when I can, and update when each chapter is finished. So no, I can't update every other day, just once a week, or twice a week if I'm lucky. It just so happens that I have a lot of time this week, but who knows for the next. Ok, that's all on that subject. This chapter deals a lot with 'The Ultimate Battle of Wits,' so if you haven't read that one, you just need to know that Isaac is a witch as well as a werewolf, a vampire named Kol briefly possessed his body, and he, Stiles, and two witches named Kai and Davina were all in New Orleans and havoc broke loose. Also, this intersects with _'_ The Originals,' not really with the plot, just with a character recently being brouth back to life, and then that's it. Okay, that's kind of a lot, but you'll get the hang of it. As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 5

Royal Orleans

Stiles hoped that the sea of people wouldn't part for him in New Orleans. He hoped he could shuffle along unnoticed, blend in with the witches and the werewolves and tourists, and find who he was looking for relatively quickly.

No such luck.

Oh, everything was fine at first. He parked his jeep in the same place Kai had parked Damon's car, (force of habit) six months earlier. He skirted around crowds and flowed with the people with ease... Until he got to the street Klaus lived on. It was a busy day, with bustling witches, vampires, and who the hell else, but it all came to a halt when Stiles turned the corner and saw those black wired balconies, and the people below them, still, a hush stuttering across the street. _Everyone_ was looking at him, with open mouths and fear, and far away in a corner of his mind, Stiles heard broken glass and shrill screams.

Stiles didn't really know what to do, so he just kind of stood there for a moment, looking back at the people looking at him. Eventually, eyes averted, whispers grew louder again, and people began to shuffle along, just as Stiles hoped to do, and soon his mark on the morning was no more. Stiles tucked his head down and walked forward, to the house he knew was at the end of the road, but before he could get there, a hand snaked around his elbow and he was tugged backwards, turned around, and pressed up against a wall, the same wall where not too long ago he had found a bleeding, half-dead-

"Isaac!" Stiles breathed, and Isaac took a step back, releasing his restraining hold.

"Stiles." Isaac said. "What are you doing here?" He didn't sound accusatory, so much as genuinely curious.

"Uh..." Stiles said, but before he could reply, he noticed the sheen of sweat on Isaac's face, the dilation of his pupils, and the panicky way his eyes moved back and forth without stopping. "Isaac, are you ok? You look like you've been running scared."

"I- yeah," Isaac said, panting slightly, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'm alright, I just- didn't really expect to see you here- you couldn't have called?"

"I-" Stiles started to say, but once again he was interrupted, this time by a loud, shrill voice that he recognized.

"Isaac!" The voice, or rather, Davina, yelled from not-to-far-away, and Isaac stiffened, a look on his face of pure, unadulterated fear.

"Everything ok?" Stiles asked softly.

"Not really." Isaac said, panic-stricken. "You still remember your way around? Cause we need to run." Without further ado, he grasped Stiles' hand, and pulled him away from the wall, through the disinterested crowds of people.

"Isaac, wait!" Stiles shouted, but Isaac did not wait, instead weaving them through back streets and alleys, up the road Stiles had come from and back down again, zigzagging along pathways, and, at one point, through a cemetery, all while Davina yelled from all over, calling out Isaac's name in worry. Everytime he heard her, Isaac winced, but then would yank Stiles' wrist to change their direction, catapulting them through street after street, making Stiles wheeze with the task of keeping up. At one point, Stiles just closed his eyes, letting himself be dragged along like a rag doll. Which is why it came as such a surprise when Isaac grinded to a halt.

"Aaaahh!" Stiles yelped, flung forward, almost crashing into their obstacle. Isaac yanked him back, and Stiles bent over, panting, reclaiming his breath. Once he was good, he looked up and saw Isaac's face. If he wasn't scared before, he certainly was now. Stiles followed his gaze and lept back in surprise. There, blocking the alley, with a disturbingly smug grin on his face, and ill-fitting clothes that suggested they were not his, in all his undead glory, was Kol Mikaelson.

"Aah!" Stiles yelped again. He looked back and forth between Kol and Isaac, who were glaring at each other with stone cold expressions, Isaac clenching the back of Stiles' shirt for support, and Kol's eyes flicking to Stiles occasionally in muted surprise.

Stiles wasn't sure how long they stood in that silent standoff, but eventually he regained his breath and composed himself, right before stomping forward, and poking Kol in the chest. "You're supposed to be dead!" he shouted.

"So is he." Kol said smugly, nodding to Isaac, causing him to shiver. "Funny how things work out that way."

Isaac opened his mouth like a fish, but no sound came out, or words, or any discernable communication. Eventually, he closed his mouth, and settled for communicating his fear optically. Kol smirked widely.

Stiles, realizing he would have to diffuse the situation, sighed, and took a tentative step towards Kol. Kol turned his head like a hawk and zeroed in on Stiles' movements, but Stiles, undeterred, merely extended his hand slowly in a half-hearted handshake attempt. To his surprise, Kol took it. His hand was stone cold.

"I'm not sure if we've met." Stiles mumbled. "I'm Stiles-"

"-Winchester." Kol finished, with a devious grin. "Don't be so shy, Stiles, we have met. And had some good times. It might have been his body-" Kol shot Isaac a glare, who withered under it, "-who you were talking to on your last trip to New Orleans, but it was my mind. Just in case you were confused."

Stiles nodded, processing the information. It was what he suspected, but still he had to be sure. No one had quite known what to make of Isaac and Kol's predicament six months ago.

"I'm not sure I'd call running around with a maniac witch good times." Stiles said.

Kol laughed, loudly and languidly. and the sound seemed to put Isaac, if possible, even more on edge. From what Stiles could tell, Kol knew this, and prolonged it on purpose.

"If you don't mind my asking, how'd you recognize me?" Kol mused. "I don't think we met when you were in Mystic Falls."

"Damon showed me some pictures." Stiles said lightheartedly. "'Know thy enemy' and all that."

"Ah." Kol said, and his devious smile wilted slightly, the corners drooping. He had still been holding Stiles' hand, but dropped it. "Are we enemies now?"

"You tell me." Stiles said. Isaac was still holding the back of his shirt, and his grip had turned vice-like to the point of it being painful for both of them. "You going to keep scaring Isaac out of his wit's end?"

Kol chuckled, looking to Isaac briefly before settling his gaze back on Stiles. He shrugged. "It's not my fault he can't take a surprise."

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows together in confusion. "What?"

Kol grinned gloatingly. "Why don't _you_ tell him, Isaac?"

Isaac grimaced, but bent down to whisper in Stiles' ear. It was unnecessary, given Kol could hear, but nevertheless, Stiles granted him the comfort. "Kol was resurrected by Davina." Isaac said. "An hour ago. She- she didn't tell me she was doing it... I was out getting fruit, I-"

"Where is Davina?" Stiles asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Kol cocked his head to the side. "Three blocks north of here, still shouting for you, Isaac."

Stiles glared at Kol. "Go get her." he demanded. He really wasn't suspecting Kol to comply, but he did, and one _whoosh!_ and smartass grin later, he was gone.

Stiles whirled on Isaac, who was glaring after Kol. "Tell me everything."

Isaac sighed.

 _Isaac sighed, shifting his weight as he carried the bag overflowing with oranges through the bustling streets, the morning light glinting off of the rooftops, throwing stray sunbeams into his eyes. He didn't mind. With his werewolf strength, it wasn't like the bag was actually heavy, and he found that turning his eyes yellow helped with the glare. Around here, nobody noticed, or cared. He had a bit of a reputation around the block as a werewolf-witch, as much of a reputation one could have with the Originals as neighbors, and it was_ this _people whispered about as he walked by, not his eye color. He was three blocks away from home, then two, then one, and it wasn't until he was at the door that he noticed something wrong. He sensed Davina behind the door, and she was bustling around, and that was normal enough, but there was someone else there, too, someone Isaac could not recognize but would know anywhere. The feeling made him uneasy, and this feeling was fortified by the realization that these people were speaking in hushed tones, striving for secrecy. Against his better judgement, Isaac unlocked the door and strode in, oranges and all. At first, all he saw was Davina's back to him. She was wearing a cloak, (that wasn't odd, she always had a flair for drama,) but what was odd was the aura of power that radiated around her, the kind Isaac had learned to associate with performing a powerful spell. Isaac's eyes snapped to the man she was talking to, the same moment the man's eyes snapped to him. Davina whirled to face him, but neither noticed. The oranges fell to the floor in a crash that Isaac did not hear, as Isaac stared at the man. He had never seen his face before, but he had seen his family, his life, his_ memories... _there was no mistaking who this man was._

 _The man, Kol, grinned mischievously. "Hello, Isaac." he said simply._

" _Isaac-" Davina said cautiously, reaching for him slowly. Isaac looked dumbstruck from her hand, to Kol's face, to the oranges scattered on the floor. Then he turned and bolted, leaving the door wide open._

Stiles stared at Isaac in alarm. "This was a dream you had a week ago?"

Isaac nodded forlornly. "Yep. And every night since. After the first dream, I kept asking Davina if she meant to bring Kol back to life, but she mostly reassured me she wasn't. Or she was just silent. I should have known she was lying."

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Okay, and Kol _was_ resurrected... Today?"

"Thirty minutes ago." Isaac said bitterly. Stiles whistled. "I happened just as I pictured it, Stiles, only I was carrying grapefruit instead of oranges. Davina was even wearing the same cloak. When I opened the door, I was more shocked from the accuracy of the dream than by Kol's return, but eventually it caught up with me, and I bolted. I panicked. I ran all around town, knowing they were both chasing after me. And then I ran into you."

"Okay." Stiles said again. "Wow. Okay. So... Kol's back. It looks like for good. What the hell are you going to do about that?"

"Talk to Davina, for one thing." Isaac said. "Ask her what the hell she was thinking, and if she's still planning on training me. Beyond that, I'm not sure. I'm a little more worried about the dream, to be honest."

"You sure about that?" Stiles asked. "Isaac, you couldn't get a word in! You were petrified!"

"I was playing my hand!" Isaac said. "I have no idea what Kol wants, but things will go easier for me if he thinks I'm scared of him."

"You are." Stiles said.

"Yeah, but these dreams are scarier." Isaac said solemnly. "Stiles, this is the third time this has happened, where one of my dreams is a perfect picture of reality. I think it means something."

Stiles looked up and down their little alley, finding it empty. "Kol will be back any second." he said urgently. "And then things will get a lot more complicated than they already are. Start talking faster."

Isaac sighed. "You probably don't know this, but I walked into like the worst thing ever when I came back here. The Originals are going through some stuff, and I've been staying out of it, even though Davina hasn't. But she tells me about what she's going through, with the vampires and everything, and at a certain point, maybe a few weeks ago, I stopped being surprised. I even asked questions, like 'was this person wearing red,' or things like that, and I was right every time. Then one day she came home, blood on her face, and she was about to tell me what happened, but I stopped her. Instead, I told _her_ what had happened. And I had gotten every last detail right. Down to the color of everyone's shoes. We figured that I had been dreaming about these things before they happened, like some kind of witchy premonition."

"You get premonitions?" Stiles asked incredulously, probably taking this easier than expected, but oh well, his life was weird. "Spot-on premontintons. Are you serious?"

"Deadly." Isaac said, and he looked it. He scoffed. "Davina even said it was normal, that some witches have this power, that it's passed along generations, that I'll learn to control it- Christ, I TOLD HER!"

His shout was unexpected, and Stiles jumped in alarm. Isaac de-escalated pretty quickly, though, and ran his fingers through his hair, more angry and fearful than violent. "I told her about my dream about Kol, and she knew what it meant, and _she freaking did it anyway!_ "

"What?" Stiles asked. "What do you mean, what it meant?"

"Haven't you been listening?" Isaac asked in strung-out anger. "I dreamt about bloodbaths, vampires, battles, my friend getting hurt! Stiles, everything I dream about is something bad. These aren't just premonitions, they're warnings!"

Stiles nodded in rapid understanding, and a sinking feeling was settling into his gut. It was an itch he had ever since first running into Isaac, but now, it was full-on suspicion.

Isaac wasn't looking at him in the eye.

"Okay," Stiles said, raising his hands in a sign of good faith. "I get it. Kol's back and it means something bad, and it sucks, and we'll deal with it, but in the meantime, it doesn't sound like your powers are anything to worry about. However, I have to ask- well, you didn't seem to surprised to see me here. Startled, yes, but not shocked."

Isaac's mouth pressed into a thin frown. His eyes glinted guiltily.

"Isaac," Stiles said slowly, "If you know why I'm here, then you know why I have to ask. What did you see?"

Isaac's gaze turned that much more fearful. "Dean." he said firmly. "With black eyes." He sighed. "I guess part of me was hoping you wouldn't drag me into this. I should have known better."

"Hey, it's alright." Stiles reassured. "Dean doesn't know where I am. We don't have to face him yet, we can deal with your problem first. That way at least you'll owe me one before charging against literal Hell on Earth."

Isaac smiled weakly and chuckled half-heartedly. But then his smile dropped, and shattered on the floor at his feet.

"They're coming back."

Stiles had a second to compose himself before he was staring into two very angry brown eyes.

"Davina!" Stiles greeted with transparent cheerfulness. "How nice to see you again! It's been so long, you know, we really have to catch up!"

Davina, predictably, wasn't looking at him. Instead, she was glowering at Isaac with untempered fury. Kol, it turns out, was passed out at their feet.

"Stiles," Davina said with bitter annoyance, still glaring at Isaac, "Would you help me carry him back home? It seems he exhausted all of his energy because _someone_ couldn't stand still and let me explain things."

"Sure!" Stiles chirped cheerfully, and as he quickly grabbed Kol's legs- Isaac grabbed his shoulders after a pointed glare from Davina- and as they hoisted him off of the stone street, Stiles couldn't help flash back to his first night in New Orleans, when he had been carrying Kol- or Isaac- through the city, with Davina at his side, and a very different person helping him.

Isaac seemed to follow his train of thought. He caught Stiles' eye after a minute, an unreadable expression on his face. "This remind you of something?"

"Yeah, when you were hexed." Stiles huffed. Geez, Kol was _heavy._ "You look like you have something you wanna say, go ahead."

"It's just-" Isaac said skittishly. "Dean looks scary. This looks bad. I know you, you're going to want to get all the help you can get. But him, are you really going to get him? Where is he, anyway?"

"Boston." Stiles said. "He told me he likes seagulls. And you're right, it's dangerous. He makes loose cannons look stable. But I don't think we have a choice."

"I think you're right." Isaac said. Davina wasn't commenting, even though she knew very well what they were talking about. Quick as a flash, Isaac looked down at Kol. Then he looked up. "Everything happening, it looks like things are shaping up to very problematic. More than the three of us, or-" he grimaced at Kol. "Four of us can deal with. Jesus, with him back, it might almost be like old times."

Now it was Stiles' turn to grimace. "God, I hope not."

Isaac shot him a questioning look as they weaved Kol's body through another alley. "How are you planning on getting him here, anyway?"

"It depends on how good Mason is at following orders." Stiles said cryptically.

Isaac sighed. "Nothing's changed, has it. You promised Scott you wouldn't do this, but you're still cooking up a master plan, aren't you."

"Scott will thank me." Stiles said sharply. "We're all cut off from one another! We're dead in the water! My plan is the only chance we've got!"

"Well, then you mind sparing some details for your accomplice?" Isaac asked, but his tone made it clear that he wasn't really asking.

Stiles sighed. He looked sideways at Davina, who was scouting out the next street. " _LATER"_ he mouthed at Isaac.

Isaac nodded.

"Dean," Crowley said, a few states away, in some dingy bar where Dean was throwing darts, "do you even have a plan?"

"My plan was to kill you." Dean grumbled, hitting a perfect bullseye. "But seeing as you talked me out of it, no, I don't have a backup."

"We need to find Stiles." Crowley urged, inwardly congratulating himself for being the amazing actor he always knew he was. "You're wasting your time chasing down his gang of mutts. Stiles is the only one who can tell us what we need to know!"

"Yeah, and who's fault is that!" Dean roared, turning on Crowley, causing him to shrink ever-so-subtly into the floor. "None of this would even be happening if you hadn't let him get the drop on you!"

"We wouldn't be on this cross-country chase if you had been smarter!" Crowley retorted, throwing caution to the winds. "You took Stiles from his pack's grasp and left them all there, unharmed. What, you thought they were just going to wait for you to come back?"

"Alright, I wasn't thinking!" Dean relented, throwing another dart, another bullseye. "That's one screw up, but you, you're up to two. Don't let it be a third."

"Please." Crowley said, rolling his eyes. "Let's not forget who's the boss of who."

But in his gut, he wasn't sure.


End file.
